Magical Mystery Tour
by chrusotoxos
Summary: Based on sophierom It's Ms Granger to you challenge. What happens if our dear Potions Master is forced to work for his former student, Hermione 'annoying knowitall' Granger?
1. Chapter 1

**Magical**** Mystery Tour**

Disclaimer: I am not making money out of this. All characters you recognize belong to J. K. Rowling, and the plot as been kindly supplied by sophierom on WIKTT.

_Chapter 1_

_In which Hermione Granger has very unpleasant news_

_Roll up, roll up,_

_Rol__ up for the Mystery Tour…_

"Yes, Mr Dawlish…I know…of course, you're right…"

Hermione glanced at her watch. It was nearly one.

"Yes…However, the engagement was quiet clear. I admit it was not your fault that Muggle was hexed by your sister's purse, but it happened…Look, I'm sorry…"

Her stomach rumbled. She hated that part of her job. Her fingers started to fiddle with the newspaper on her desk, rolling and smoothing the front page, which titled "Ministry Employee hexes a Muggle thief"; "full story at page 3", promised Rita Skeeter.

How had the wretched woman known about it? And why, why had Hermione ever set her free from the glass jar?

"I've got a call on the other line," said Hermione, crossing her fingers. "May I call you later? Thank you, goodbye."

With a satisfactory click, the conversation ended, and Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. Earlier that week, during a tour in Muggle London, a thief had tried to steal Dawlish' sister's purse, with the obvious result that the purse had exploded in his face. The man had been promptly taken to St. Mungo, and the passers-by Obliviated, but Hermione had got an owl from the Wizengamot all the same. The Healers demanded a compensation for the treatment, and who should pay?

According to the contract Dawlish had signed, Hermione's agency, the Magical Mystery Tour, was not responsible for any loss or thefts the customers might undergo while on tour. Dawlish, however, was not of this opinion. The MMT, he'd said quite clearly to the press, was bound by the magical contract to deal with the Muggle world, allowing its customers, as it was said on the leaflet, to "discover new places and learn to enjoy them safely". It was to be expected that a wizard should protect his belongings with magical enchantments; it was also to be expected that Muggles should try to steal these belongings away (dozens of letters had been written to the Daily Prophet about this last statement); it was therefore, logically, the MMT's responsibility to deal with Muggle thieves.

Hermione got up from her desk and put on her jacket, frowning. Dawlish had just called, for the hundredth time, to state his rights. He seemed to think that what the Wizengamot had to say was irrelevant: the main thing was for Hermione to understand his position. The problem, he said, was that he had no money for the Healers. Well, Hermione understood it well: she had no money too. The small sum she'd borrowed from her parents had been used to set up her agency and to pay the rent for the small Muggle flat she inhabited; there had been not enough left to activate the Floo network, how could she afford to repay St. Mungo?

As she stormed out of her flat, she bumped into a person who was waiting at the door.

"Sorry, I – Harry! What are you doing here?"

Harry Potter had not changed much since his years at Hogwarts. He had the same striking green eyes, the same thin frame and the same boyish stubborness. Even his scar was still there, having not vanished, as many had predicted, with Voldemort's death. Harry had readily accepted this: it was a reminder of how much that battle had costed.

"Hi to you too," he said. "You were 30 minutes late, so I decided to come here and force you to the restaurant."

Hermione blushed.

"Harry,I'm so sorry!" she said, "It's just all this Dawlish business, it was him on the phone just now and – "

"Why don't we talk about it over lunch?" said Harry, gently stirring her to their favourite Muggle restaurant.

"Oh, we don't really need to talk about it, do we? It's all over the papers… What about you? Is Ginny okay?"

Harry grinned.

"She's more than ok! We felt the baby kicking last night!"

Hermione stopped in his track, her heart skipping a beat, then she forced a smile.

"Oh, that's wonderful! That's really…really…"

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing…I'm just…Nothing, it's this whole Dawlish business…"

Later on, Hermione gulped down her soup while Harry droned on the baby, when he was due, how would his room be, how Ginny had finished a new purple little jumper. She couldn't understand why she felt so annoyed. Even seeing Harry, these times, was irritating at best. It was partly because of the baby, of course; but not only.

After Ron's death, Hermione had been overwhelmed by a through disgust of the Wizarding World. She'd given the best years of her life, her best friend to the cause. It was enough. She wanted out. Hoping in some freedom, she'd founded a small tourist office, the Magical Mystery Tour, keeping company to inexperienced wizards as they visited famous Muggle places. But now, on the eve of the Dawlish vs. Granger hearing, even this tiny opening to freedom seemed doomed. What if she lost? She'd have no money left, no customers; she would be back in her parents' house.

"Hermione?"

"Oh…sorry, what were you saying?"

Harry pushed his plate aside.

"Is this really worrying you that much?" he asked gently.

Hermione didn't have to think about the answer.

"Yes," she said. "Yes, absolutely. I will almost certainly lose, I admit myself that Dawlish is right. I should have been more careful."

"And what will you do if you lose?"

Here it was, the straightforward question Hermione had avoided to ask herself since the first owl from Dawlish.

"Well…" she stammered, "I suppose I'll…I'll go back to my parents' house."

Harry looked at her very seriously.

"Are you sure about it?"

"I know, I know, but what can I do? What can I do? No boyfriend, no job, no nothing! What do you want me to do?"

"Well, I've done some research on this subject," Harry admitted.

"Research?" said Hermione, stunned. "You? Sorry," she added, seeing the expression on his face, "I didn't want to be rude, it's just…"

"Well, I _am_ pretty bored in playing Quidditch all day," Harry said, mockingly.

Hermione blushed, but before she could say anything he rushed on.

"Why don't you continue your business – abroad? After all, many wizards know Muggle London, but you said yourself you were surprised at how little they knew about other countries. As it is," he continued, ignoring her disbelief, "I have a colleague working in Italy who said he'd help you. What do you say?"

Hermione gaped, and Harry laughed.

"Italy? And where – what – how should I pay for everything?"

"I'll be your first customer," said Harry quietly, waving for the bill. "And I'll pay you _a lot_."

"I – I – "

"Wonderful. I'll speak to Mr. Weasley tonight, he said yesterday it would look good if you had detailed plans for your future."

_Italy_.

Hermione knew she ought to be listening to what Dawlish was saying, but she found she just couldn't. Was Italy a mad idea? Italy was very appealing for English wizards, but few of them chose it as a journey destination because it was ill-equipped for magical lifestyle. The Inquisition had drawn out of the country most of its magical community, and wizards were not accustomed to journey staying in Muggle hotels overnight.

"The Magical Mystery Tour, represented here in the person of Miss Hermione Granger…"

Hermione tried to clear her head and listen to the Chief Warlock, but his speech seemed to consist in significant, isolated words, which were not connected, in Hermione's brain, by actual sentences.

"…guilty of charges…Hogwarts…excellent student…war…merits…young people's possibilities…"

What did that mean? What was he saying? Maybe famous Hermione Granger, friend of much more famous Harry Potter, would not be condemned as a common fraud after all.

"…because of all these reasons, the Wizengamot has decided that you should take part in the Wizarding Social Program for the Unwanted; particularly, you are asked to employ and form through your agency a person who…"

Hermione lost track again. Social work. That was not so bad. She pictured Stan Shunpike, and imagined to show him her office and bring him around to Downing Street and the Tube. It would be annoying, but apparently there would be no money lost.

"The Wizengamot approves of your plans in expanding your business abroad…"

Hermione sighed. Had Harry told _everyone_? She had not decided yet, for God's sake!

"…and identifies in the person of Severus Snape…"

Hermione's whole body gave a jolt. What where they talking about? Snape? _Snape_? She'd not heard from Snape since the day Voldemort was defeated, and she surely didn't miss him.

"…most suitable for the job, as he masters four languages and has studied at Palermo's Alchemical School…"

The Chief Warlock suddenly stopped reading his document.

"Would you need a glass of water, Miss Granger? You look rather pale."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

_In which Hermione Tries to Move to Florence _

"Harry, tell me it's not true. Please."

Harry Potter, hero of the Wizarding world, the boy who had survived to Lord Voldemort five times and had eventually killed him, didn't dare to look at her friend.

"Let's just go home," he said instead, pulling her by the hand towards the exit.

They were walking in the narrow corridor outside the Wizengamot courtroom. Hermione had just been said she'd have to baby-sit Severus Snape for six months, and she was so faint Harry to pull her up the stairs.

"Careful now," he whispered, as he opened the door leading to the Entry Hall.

The moment he opened the door, flashes exploded in their faces.

"Miss Granger!"

"Miss Granger, please…"

"How do you feel," said a caressing voice, as a green-taloned hand took her violently by the arm "about spending so much time with a former teacher?"

Hermione spinned around – she knew that voice – and Rita Skeeter smiled sweetly at her.

"How do you – How – What are you doing here?" Hermione spluttered.

They had left the Courtroom five minutes ago; how could that horrible woman already know about Snape? Had she been down there in her beetle form? Was that another example of the 'top security measures' of the Minister?

"Working, honey. So: are you still attracted to him?"

Harry looked up at these words, and spotted the annoying woman.

"Leave her alone," he said quietly, dragging Hermione away.

They walked as quickly as they could, but Rita actually shouted after them.

"The most you hate, the most you love, kitty!"

Hermione actually jumped into the green flames of the nearest Floo fire, choking on the hot ashes. A second later, she was crawling out of the Burrow fireplace, with six expectant faces looking down at her. Molly, Ginny, Bill and Fleur, Ron and Hanna.

"How did it go?" asked Ron, giving her a hand up.

"Dreadful," answered Harry for her, stepping out of the flames behind her.

"I wasn't fined," she protested weakly.

"That's a funny way to describe it."

"Enough!" said Mrs Weasley. "Ginny, please make some tea. Hermione, come and sit here, you look strained dear. Harry, do tell us what has happened."

"They've accepted she did what she could in the Dawlish's situation, and she won't be punished."

"Excellent," said Ginny, coming back into the room with a tray of biscuits.

"She will, however, be forced to employ an Unwanted to clear his way back to a normal life. And she got Snape."

Ron swore, and her girlfriend, Hanna Abbot, stopped to pat Hermione's back and stared at her.

"Is that true?"

"I'm afraid it is," Hermione sighed. "But…but…you know what? Let's be positive."

"Positive?" breathed Ron, incredulous. "Hermione, not even you could possibly be positive about this. He killed Dumbledore! It is a miracle we won!"

"It is a greater miracle," said Ginny quietly "that he's still out of Azkaban."

Everybody turned towards Harry, who supposedly know more about this matter than anybody else.

"For the tenth time, no," he said, irritably "I don't know why he wasn't convicted."

"Anyway," said Hermione quickly "It's only six months, right? And he speaks Italian, he'll help me settle down. I mean, he has to, if he wants me to sign the final paper. And I'm not defenceless, I'll be able to report any abuses, and stuff."

At this, everybody started to talk at the same time.

"I think she's right," shouted Molly over the furious crowd. "She'll live in Italy, for God's sake. What does it matter with whom she'll live?"

Over the next few days, Hermione forced herself to think along those lines. She left the Burrow the day after the trial, traveled to Italy the Muggle way, and met with Harry's friend, James Clearwater, in Florence main station. James turned out to be a cousin of Penelope's, and was delighted to meet her. In a way.

"Welcome to Italy," he said, in a booming voice. "Have you thought about where your main office is going to be?"

"Er…"

Hermione looked curiously at him. Had she finally met a person more practical than herself?

"Not really," she admitted. "But I've been to Florence with my parents and"

"Forget it," he said briskly, leading her towards a big waste bin. "Flats are way too expensive."

Hermione's face fell: she'd been in Florence with her parents as a child, and had kind of hoped those memories would help her start her new life and endure Snape more easily. She tried to hide her disappointment, but James noticed it.

"Don't worry," he said gently. "We're in Tuscany, one of the most beautiful places in the world. Florence is but a part of it. What do you say," he added, leaning on the waste bin "of Pisa?"

"I…I don't know. That's the city with the tower, right?"

James nodded and took her hand, pulling her towards him.

"Look down," he said, pointing at the waste bin.

Hermione did, and all she saw was a mouldy banana peel, lying on the top of other disgusting things.

"That's your ticket to magnificent Pisa," he said, lowering their hands to the banana peel.

The moment they touched it, Hermione understood: it was a Portkey.

Over the next few days, Hermione could not even remember why she had desired to live in Florence in the first place. She spent her days walking in the medieval streets of Pisa's old town, feeding the pigeons, watching slow, graceful Arno passing under the white bridges. James had found her a flat on the last floor of an old building and, marvel, there was a garden on the roof, and an orange-tree on that roof. She'd devoted a room to her office, painting the lyrics of the Beatles' song on a wall, and enchanting them so they moved all around the room. She was ready for Harry, her first customer, who would arrive in a week.

As she sipped a tea in her sunny kitchen, she tried hard not to think about her employee – _he_ would arrive the very next day.


End file.
